The Road Trip

Their eyes were focused on the black dot at the end of the tunnel

“Remember it’s the journey not the destination,” said Peter Barrett, grinning at Emily Jensen as he did at the start of every leg of the road trip.

Day seventeen, fourteen thousand miles into the adventure, and the joke was getting old and so was the view.

“How does a worm know which way is up, which way is down?’ said Emily, experiencing a familiar jolt of irritation at not being able to answer the question instantly with a google search.

“Let’s speculate, shall we?” said Peter, attuned to this new road-trip game. I spy and 20 questions had run their course.

“Gravity and light,” said Peter.

“Smell,” said Emily.

The road surface hummed. Peter and Emily could estimate speed by pitch, timbre or tone.

The car was travelling sixty-five, on cruise-control.

Emily glanced at Peter in accordance with the agreed protocol. He was grimly alert. She suddenly had a terrible feeling that they were headed in the wrong direction.

“I haven’t seen a sign since we set off,” said Emily. She checked her watch; they’d been driving a steady 65MPH for nearly two hours.

Peter frowned. The blue flashes came at them metronomically, once every 55.4 seconds, but the signs were few and far between on this leg of the journey. One wrong turn, and you might not know for days.

“Fuck,” said Peter. “Did we turn left or right when we left the Monrovia gas station?”

“ We turned left.” said Emily. Peter’s head obscured a view of the motel rooms as they left the parking lot.

Peter ground his teeth.“Are you sure about that?”

Emily snorted, grabbed the bag of Swedish Fish, and the water bottle, took a swig.

“Stop at the next opportunity, I need a bio-break.”

“Will do.”

Their eyes were focused on the black dot at the end of the tunnel.

“We need to stop soon, my bladder is about to burst,” said Emily.

Peter breathed deeply. “Where exactly am I supposed to stop?”

Petter was in a foul mood. They were tailgating a VW, Brazilian plates, two kids in the back, cruising at 63 MPH for the last half hour… They were losing two miles every hour.

“Why don’t you stop here?” said Emily.

“Where am I supposed to pull over?”

Concrete flashed by either side of the car. This stretch of the highway was divided in the center by stanchions… hundreds of thousands of black and yellow tubes, some dented, some scoured with rubber and oil. Stopping was illegal.

He flashed his lights at the Brazilian driver.

“Hurry up, goddammit”.

He honked the horn.

63MPH. One of the children turned around in the back seat of the VW and gave Peter the finger.

“Just a little bit longer. I will pull over first chance,” said Peter. “There’s a sign up ahead.”

The white sign, red lettering, hung from an air-handling device, the first they’d seen in days. It was a disappointment.

Emily crossed her legs, crossed her fingers, she pursed her lips and crossed her eyes.

“Stop! You’ve gotta stop. I’m bursting.”

“Fuck it.” Peter hit the brakes, The 65MPH VW shot ahead, the child with the middle finger turned, smiled, and was gone.

“Don’t take too long.”

Emily burst out of the car and crouched in the gap between the car and the tunnel wall. A car flashed by in the opposite direction. The doppler effect made the horn sound like a dying animal.

Peter checked the rearview mirror.

Red and blue flashing lights.

“License please and registration," said the cop, dressed sharply. He spoke excellent English.

Peter figured he was African, but he might be Brazilian.

The cop went back to his patrol car.

The wireless signal was non-existent on this stretch of highway, had been for a thousand miles or more. At most the cop would check his license and registration against an onboard database.

“How many cars are there in the world?” said Peter.

Emily felt the Google jolt. “Five hundred million, I’m guessing.” She popped a Swedish Fish.

“Sounds about right.”

“Do you think he’ll have my details on his database?”

It was a good question because it required a lot of math calculations, but it would have to wait until they were back underway. For now, they just needed to pay the fine and get going again.

The cop returned, ticket in hand.

“Five hundred dollars!” Peter instantly regretted his outburst.

The cop looked disappointed, then aggrieved.

“No stopping on this stretch of the highway under any circumstances, Sir.”

“But five hundred dollars… my girlfriend needed to pee. For Chris ’sake.”

The cop stepped back into the middle of the tunnel. He was wearing a holstered gun.

Emily reached over and placed her hand on Peter’s arm.

“Calm down,” she said.

The cop looked pissed.

Peter put his hands in the air.

“I’m so sorry officer. Lost my head. Of course I will pay the $500.”

The cop accepted Peter’s credit card as payment.

Emily offered the Cop a Swedish Fish, which he accepted with a 600-volt smile.

The incident ended amicably. The cop car weaved through the stanchions, into the opposing lane for a hundred yards or so, then returned to the right lane.

Peter wiped the sweat from his brow, his pulse slowed. He glanced at Emily. “Sorry”.

Peter handed Emily the ticket and the receipt.

He pressed the ignition button.

“Fuck! I forgot to ask the cop to confirm our direction and location?”

Thirty MPH, accelerating.

Emily was busily reading the traffic ticket.

Forty MPH, the road began to hum.

“Liberian dollars,” said Emily. “He was a Liberian policeman.”

“Where the hell is Liberia?” said Peter. “It sounds like one of those made up places.”

“I think it’s next door to Guyana?” said Emily.

“Phew. That means we’re heading in the right direction. West.”

They focused on the black dot at the end of the tunnel.

“We’re nearly out of gas,” said Peter.

“You’ve been driving for nearly five hours now, non-stop. Surely, we must be close to the next service station and motel.”

“God, I hope so, I’m tired, hungry and my back is aching.”

Emily noted that Peter had developed a pot-belly.

“How many miles, total”

“Nearly fifteen thousand.”

“What do you think the exchange rate is, Liberian to US dollars?”

“Good question. Maybe it’s less than one-to-one.”

“How do we know that left was the right direction?”

“Or right was the left direction?” said Emily, punch-drunk on Swedish Fish.

“Well, we know we are heading West, because Liberia is next to Guyana. They’re bunched up together at the top of the South American continent. We can take a detour if you want.”

Peter was staring so hard at the black dot that he suddenly had the impression that the car was stationary, and the tunnel was in motion, and he became so disoriented that he hit the brakes.

The car behind them, a white Porsche, broke hard, causing a terrible squeal of tires.

“Woops,” said Peter, reaccelerating, holding his hand up to apologize. The white Porsche gave a friendly hoot.

“We’d better find the service station real soon otherwise we are up shit’s creek without a paddle.”

There were water stains on the road up ahead. Salt crust in the gutter.

“Can you imagine if the tunnel collapsed?” said Emily.

They both could, they’d both been imagining just that for over three weeks now.

Eleven thousand feet of water pressed at the tunnel overhead.

Peter felt the nucleus of a headache forming behind his eyes. The gas tank was nearly empty. If they stopped, the Porsche might help them out – German plates. Then again, the Porsche might not; it’s not like the Porsche was likely carrying a five-gallon gas bottle.

The lights changed in the tunnel, brighter now and a different shade of white. The tunnel felt like it was a conduit heading straight up into the sky. The idea of driving to the moon struck Peter as a delightful idea, and he wondered whether such an insane thing might be accomplished during his life time.

The sign raced up at them.,

“Equatorial Guinea, seven hundred miles”.

“Guinea, Guyana. It’s easy to get these places mixed up,” said Peter

The gas station was four hundred yards up ahead. He began to slow down.

“Ghana too,” said Emily, laughing. She was really looking forward to stretching her legs while Peter filled the gas tank.

“Travel certainly broadens the horizons,” said Peter, laughing along with her. “People will not believe the places we’ve been and the sights we’ve seen.”

He pulled into the gas station, recessed into the side of the widened tunnel. $7.50 a gallon, but worth every penny.

The white Porsche pulled up to the adjacent pump.

“Where are you driving?” said the German man with the bronze suntan. He wore a Hawaiian shirt. His girlfriend or wife seemed about ten feet tall when she got out of the Porsche.

“We are headed to Brazil,” said Peter. “Following our noses!”

“What for, you are taking the long route?” said the German, laughing.

“Yep! We are on holiday.”

“Us too,” said the German. “Very good meeting you, Sir. Enjoy”.

“Enjoy. Drive safe,” said Peter waving.

Peter joined Emily inside the service station, where they ordered Sushi.

“Crazy if you think about it, said Emily. Sushi, and were under the Atlantic Ocean… not a fresh fish for a thousand miles in either direction.”

The roar on the forecourt caught their attention. The White Porsche pulled out, the tires screeched, burning rubber.

“I guess he can afford speeding tickets," said Peter.

Their eyes were focused on the black dot at the end of the tunnel

“Remember it’s the journey not the destination,” said Peter, grinning at Emily as they pulled out of the service station parking lot.

“Left, or right?” said Emily, frowning.

“Um…”

“Can you go and ask, make sure were heading the right direction.”

“Brain fart,” said Peter. "It’s left”.

He hit the gas, made a sharp left and accelerated toward the black dot.

“Swedish Fish?” said Emily.

“Thanks.”

“Fourteen thousand nine hundred and…”

“Fifteen thousand!” Emily and Peter high-fived.

“Ten thousand to go!”

“When we get to Guam, we should stop and smell the roses.”

“Good idea”.

“Sign ahead,” said Emily, excited.

“I’m getting tired,” said Peter, “hopefully we can call it a day soon.”

“What is the time, Peter?” said Emily, laughing?

The sign flashed by, white. They both missed it.

The service station and motel appeared.

Peter pulled in and stopped outside one of the motel rooms tucked beneath the station canopy. Pins and needles.

“You’d think they’d make the effort to tart up these service stations a bit, give them a bit of individuality," said Peter.

Emily knew the answer to this one. “It’s a global franchise. The entire Equatorial Highway is owned and operated by the Chinese firm that dug the tunnel.” She paused. “Part of their schtick is that you will feel at home wherever you stop.”

“Cool. It definitely feels familiar. Let’s get some shut eye. We’ve got two more days before we get to Brazil.

Their eyes were focused on the black dot at the end of the tunnel

“Remember it’s the journey not the destination,” said Peter Barrett, grinning at Emily Jensen as he did at the start of every leg of the journey.

Day eighteen, nearly sixteen thousand miles into the adventure, and the joke was getting old and so was the view.

“Left, or right?”